Espiers
by cruces
Summary: Nick Fury has visitors.


Its a Saturday morning when he first sees the flicker out the corner of his remaining eye. He sets the coffeepot to brew, checks the digest of the last three hours he was asleep from communications, makes his bed, showers and shaves, gets dressed, and pours himself a cup of coffee. Two sugars. He checks his messages and snaps his eyepatch in place. It's a nice morning, even though Hill would certainly note that four-fifteen in the morning lands squarely on the ungodly side of the line that divides day and night. Nick takes another sip.

Hill meets him on the way to the bridge of the Helicarrier and debriefs him on the several dozen small fires around the world they're currently monitoring. She looks sleep-deprived, but it still takes her only ten minutes to bring Nick up to speed on all their major operations.

The morning continues to be nice until precisely 0900 when he receives word that Tony Stark has punched a giant hole through a very important section of the Musée D'Orsay in the course of neutralizing a tunnel-digging terrorist supergroup who appears to have failed Digging for Dummies 101 down to the last man. Finding themselves among Impressionists rather than terrified assemblymen and women in the Palais Bourbon, they had decided terrorizing was terrorizing; clearly not appreciators of art.

He asks Barton to fly out to assess and assist with the situation if necessary. Barton looks ragged; they'll have to see that he's getting enough sleep. It's unavoidable, they've been short-staffed since—anyway, there's a problem with understaffing at the moment, but Nick thinks it should be resolved once some of the administrative team members finish their training. It's a rush job, and he doesn't like it, but on the other hand you have Tony Stark vaporizing a Manet. And why had Tony Stark been on the left bank? "Shindig, the most amazing brie ever by the way! I will have them ship a box to y—" Nick cuts the line and has Hill notify the programmers that no, Tony Stark can still hack that.

By the time they start sorting things out it's Sunday afternoon and thousands of terse calls (and some well-earned bonuses for the unsung heroes of S.H.I.E.L.D's damage control and covert PR division) later when he sees the flicker again. It's very quiet in his office suite, pristine except for his desk and the far wall, flashing with screens and datastreams. He finishes hand-writing a memo on nice crisp cream-colored stationary to Cap to please not punch Iron Man in public and slides it to one side of his otherwise empty desktop. He's been thinking of getting a typewriter and putting it in that very spot. It might be nice to have something other than occasional paper memos and guns attached to his desk.

"I know you're there," Nick says evenly, feeling the cool metal of one of those guns in his right hand. "So you might as well come out."

He's not quite prepared for two ravens to flutter down and land on the other side of the desk.

"Salutations from the Allfather," the bird with purple-black wings says.

"We are to be fed at your table for nine days," the other bird says.

"Seven, Hugin," the first bird says.

The raven called Hugin pauses. It's extremely strange, but somehow it's clear to Nick that the bird is deliberating over its next words. His fingers tighten slightly on the trigger. When it finally speaks, it is with a slow, halting dignity.

"We're very hungry."

•••••

II.

It is a fact that Nick Fury actually _does_ know that some members of his team enjoy, among other things, Galaga, and Space Invaders, and SkiFree, but contrary to received wisdom Nick is content to rule with gloved hands as well as iron fists. The discretion he regularly employs pays off, for example, when you have two hungry alien ambassadors in your office, knowing that one of those team members has a stash of Coney Island-themed snacks hidden in a bulkhead just two girders down from the entrance to the fire safety gear closet off the level five conference room.

The other bird, introducing himself as Munin between bites of caramel popcorn, tells Nick that Odin has sent them to him, "As a gesture of good," chomp, "will, and to provide any" chomp, "assistance," chomp, "so on. This is good."

They've spent the last two days observing, Hugin informs Nick, and deemed this hour the proper one to make themselves known. He repeats the other raven's offer of assistance.

Nick makes some mental notes and checks a couple of boxes in his head next to Alien Ravens. It's not every day that he can usher in a new category, though they've been coming in fast and furious in the past few years: Man-Child in A Suit; Outer Space Fabio; His Brother Who Probably Never Gets No Invites to No Functions Whatsoever.

"That's very generous, but we're doing pretty well at the moment. Is there some trouble with Thor?"

Hugin is the more elegant of the two. He ruffles his wings. "None troubles the elder but the younger; none harries the younger but shadows."

"We've gathered as much," Nick says dryly. "You can tell Odin that Thor is doing great. Now if you're finished, I have some more work to do. If you'll excuse me."

"The Captain was sad today," Munin says. Nick holds up a hand.

"I don't need to know that."

Both ravens laugh. "You refuse our tales, storyteller?" Hugin asks, mocking.

"I don't need to be told things I already know," Nick tells the ravens. "But moreover," he goes on before they can speak, "I only need to know what I need to know." He gives them a glare. "You haven't told me what Odin wants in exchange for your services."

Munin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "popcorn," but Hugin is the one who speaks up. "He wants a truth."

Nick looks at the two of them, utterly serious. "What kind of truth?"

"Munin decides, or I decide," Hugin replies. "Which of us do you choose?"

He gets a weird feeling; probably he's already in some kind of deep shit for all that the ravens look like the ordinary ones you get down in the city. They've been unfailingly polite; nothing gets Nick more suspicious than people being polite—but one man's character flaw is another man's bulletproof vest.

"Do I have to choose now, or can I do it later?"

The ravens mull it over. "Later," Munin says. Hugin pecks at him and gets a couple of pecks right back. Hugin shakes out his wings and hops away. "Later," he says, sounding peeved.

"All right then," Nick says. "Now get out. I have memos to write."

They caw. The sound of fluttering wings buffet his ears and a moment later, it's just him again, surrounded by the glow of electronic screens.

•••••

III.

It's day six by his reckoning when he sees the birds again; they flash across his vision as he's falling down the side of a skyscraper. He hadn't even seen it coming, the golem or whatever sucking steel beams straight out from the buildings and spitting them out in every direction. Luckily Stark is managing to distract it, hopefully long enough for the other Avengers to get to the city, and possible plans of attack flash through Nick's mind. He's got a gadget that might help him survive the fall with maybe just a dozen broken bones but his fingers are slippery with blood—but out of nowhere Thor's there to catch him, bruising only a couple of his ribs in the process. Nick is lightly set down on the ground, thunder roaring in his years, and Thor is gone in a rush of billowing red cape. Nick pulls himself to his feet and gets Hill on his com.

"What's the ETA on our backup?"

"Dr. Banner can be there in half an hour, but it might be dicey. The weather here—"

The connection goes abruptly silent. Fury checks his satellite uplink for the weather down in Florida where the local reporters are freaking out about the level two hurricane that has barreled up the coast out of nowhere just a mere hour ago. Nick ducks behind an upturned truck and tracks the way Thor, Cap, and Iron Man are pushing the golem into the historic downtown church one block down—mostly bricks and stone in that buliding. Romanoff's updates on the evacuation of the area comes through steadily through his earpiece. Nick looks up at the sound of wings, sudden and loud and clear as if he was standing in a silent room, not a battlefield.

"Is it Loki again?" Nick asks the two ravens that have come to perch on a twisted metal lamppost. Their list of enemies is growing day by day, but the situation seems like the kind of overdramatic thing Thor's brother likes to indulge in.

"A man in a green cloak," Hugin says.

"The beautiful man," Munin says, "in hair he cut three days before."

"Vain," Hugin says. "Is he so beautiful?"

"Our Thor is fairer," Munin replies.

"That's great," Nick says. "It's Doom," he says into his com. He sees that Stark has hacked into his uplink again, but the news is good, he and the others seem to be getting things under control; the golem is apparently having a case of indigestion from the bricks. He gets Hill to send men to the Latverian embassy and checks back with Romanoff to see that the evacuation is going well.

"And call Reed, see if you can convince him to cut his conference short," Nick tells Hill.

"He's in the middle of presenting his paper on—"

"Trip the fire alarm," Nick says, then switches the com to silent temporarily. His patience is wearing thin. "Where's Doom controlling this thing from?"

Munin hops closer. "Mountaintop?"

"The innards," Hugin says. "And oh, the fires!"

"_Where, you buzzards._"

"Rude!" Munin exclaims.

"Odin's son flies close," Hugin admonishes the other raven. "Have a care for his ears, Munin."

Munin caws. "Tender with fears, Hugin."

"Okay, shut up," Nick says, rubbing his face. "Forget it. We can get him ourselves. No poetry."

At that, Munin starts singing the latest track from Nicki Minaj. Hugin counters with some classic Bette Midler, not a beat behind. Nick threatens to shoot them; they just laugh and disappear into the smoky gray sky.

•••••

IV.

Days seven and eight and nine go by with nothing terribly terrible in the big scheme of things. In fact, Nick decides, a two hour phone argument with Reed Richards about academic freedom, Tony Stark sneaking evidence from the S.H.I.E.L.D labs, Barton nonchalantly informing him that he was taking _an entire week off_ for some _personal business_ and it would be great if Nick could _stay out of this one_ but "Can I take the quinjet? Thanks a bunch" and Cap being still quietly sad was, in fact, welcome, if the alternative was two smartass ravens driving him crazy with their constant commentary. Since he's not the kind of guy who has a habit of talking to himself, Nick finds himself spending more time holed up in his office than usual, not that anybody has noticed.

"So no one else can see you?" Nick asks, feeding Munin a sheet of stationary which the raven immediately begins to rip up in delight.

"Odin did not send us to _them_," Hugin says, twitching because he wants also stationary to play with and is too proud to ask. Nick casually leaves a sheet hanging by the edge of the desk. He folds his hands on the desk and glowers. "How do I know you're not just a couple of hallucinations?"

"Art thou a man who would suffer such ills?" Munin asks, tossing strips of paper over his head.

Nick's glower deepens; Hugin snickers. Nick sighs inwardly and pulls out his trump card, though he is loath to—the state of the stash is getting worrisome; Nick is really feeling the knives and daggers being directed at his back whenever he's on the Helicarrier bridge.

"_The Cracker Jacks_," Munin says, voice already muffled from halfway inside the paper bag. Hugin shakes his head, but looks up expectantly, and with utmost dignity hops forward to the handful of unsalted roast peanuts Nick takes out from a drawer to lay on the desk.

"Don't have junk food at home?"

"We know mortal delicacies," Hugin says. It's a little hard to take the bird at all seriously when he's crushing peanuts in his beak and getting crumbs all over his feathers.

"Really."

"The brain when it is still soft," Munin says, backing out of the bag with his treasures, "or the flesh tender from under the tongue."

"I like too the lips," Hugin adds, eating another peanut. "And the liver spoiled."

"A couple of gourmets, huh," Nick says. The ravens caw; Hugin falls silent and Munin replies: "You know, too, death's garden. Here the fruits are easily got."

"Ah," Nick says to that. "That I do."

"I counted the worms in the furrows," Hugin says. Munin swallows the last of the CrackerJacks and sighs, wistful. "Yes, those were good."

"You're out of here tomorrow," Nick warns them. "Or else. Back to your boss you go."

"Odin our master!" Munin says. He caws.

"Our tongues are his gifts," Hugin says, dignified.

"Your business," Nick says.

Hugin shrugs his bird shoulders. "Everyone is our business."

"And today, you," Munin says, hopping on to his arm, pretending that he's not looking for more food.

"What kind of truth does Odin want?" Nick asks. He smiles humorlessly. "You can tell him I'm taking good care of his kids. But it would be nice if he'd do more active parenting now and then."

"Rude!" Munin says, but he caws, so Nick knows he finds it funny, too. "All right. Munin. No offense," he says to the other raven.

Hugin seems oddly relived. Nick shakes Munin off his arm. "Well?"

Munin tilts his head to one side. "Do you regret?"

"No," Nick answers, not a moment's hesitation wasted. The sound hangs in the air. Munin darts forward and catches it in his beak, crushes it, a kernel. If he didn't know any better Nick could swear that the bird was grinning. The ravens hop to the edge of the desk.

"Don't come around if you don't have to," Nick tells them.

"We'll meet again. Greet us as friends," Hugin says.

"Acquaintances," Nick corrects him. Munin snickers.

Nick looks at the ravens thoughtfully. "Even me?"

"We meet everyone," Hugin says as he and his brother take wing.

"That'll be nice," Nick says into the empty air. He thinks he means it.

•••••

End


End file.
